I went to get a check-up with a new doctor today. My old doctor moved out to the suburbs years ago, and I don’t like riding my bike out to Jefferson when there are perfectly good doctors in my neighborhood.
Her office is in a completely unfriendly giant box attached to a big hospital, just a few blocks from my house. The place exudes bad vibes. But I liked the doctor. She’s young and friendly and a Xavier grad to boot.
She: “Do you have any medical conditions?”
Me: “I’ve had epileptic seizures since I was about twelve or fourteen.”
And I explained how I’d taken an anticonvulsant for most of my life, but stopped taking it almost two years ago.
She congratulated me on quitting smoking. (That was fifteen years ago.) Then she asked about my drinking habits.
She: “How often do you drink?”
Me: “Just about every day.”
She: “How much?”
Me: “Oh, I almost always have a beer when I get home, and later in the evening I might have a cocktail or two, but sometimes not. That’s about it.”
She: “Hmm. Well, maybe that’s why you haven’t had any seizures. Alcohol acts as a [insert unitelligible medical jargon here].”
Me: “Really? That’s nice to know.”
She: “It’s a good reason to have another cocktail!”
So tonight, I’m drinking a toast to my new doctor.